Together We Fall
by aquavis
Summary: Matthew wasn't the same after the war was over. He wanted power, to see his brother grovel at his feet, to make him remember how powerful his Northern brother really was. Future story post war. Heavy violence. T for now. M for later chapters.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

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"I-I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Cried the boy. He scrambled on the floor like a broken puppet, twisting and turning on the linoleum. "I will, I will!"

"I asked you nicely, Freyr." The man towering over him sneered, nudging the boy with the toe of his boot. He made sure that it made swift contact with his stomach. "It's really too late for apologies now, don't you think?"

Freyr let out a small whimper, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. "P-Please! Just leave me alone!"

The man let out a dry laugh, his shoulders heaving back and forth. "You know I can't." He replied, a smile creeping onto his face. "You have something I want, and I won't leave until I have it under my possession."

The man bent down at the boy's head; crouching close enough to see the terror reflected in his eyes. He moved his free hand to Freyr's face, stroking it lovingly with his thumb. "If only Denmark could see you now." Freyr squirmed at the touch, as if searing hot, wiggling as far away from the man as his bound arms would let him.

The hand snaked its way to the boy's dark hair and pulled it upwards, tugging powerfully on the scalp. Freyr lifted himself to his knees, wincing in pain as his head was jerked forward. The tears were now pouring off of his face in torrents, dripping onto the man's boot like rain.

"You're hair is so soft, Freyr." Cooed the man, letting go, and stepping backwards. "It's a shame really, letting go all to waste."

The boy turned his head downwards, casting his blurred gaze to the floor beneath them as he watched the blood and tears drip from his face onto the floor.

"How unfortunate." The man lifted up the pistol clutched in his hand, cocking the gun loudly enough for the boy to hear.

Freyr looked up, and he could feel his heart beat faster against his chest. "You-You wouldn't." He said, his throat dry and rough.

The man aimed his weapon, taking care to see the boy's terror in his dark eyes.

"You don't have to do this!" Freyr screamed; a rising panic in his voice as his face flushed red. "For gods sake, don't! I'll do anything! Please!" He was heaving, panting in a flurry of emotions as more tears came down his face.

The man only grinned, the twisted expression contorting his face. "Say what you want, little Freyr." His index finger pulled on the trigger. "…It won't change the outcome."

There was a dull thud on the floor.

He lowered his gun, wiping the blood on his face with the back of his sleeve. "Really?" He said, lifting a handkerchief from his breast pocket. "Did you really think you stood a chance alone?"

Freyr laid still, blood pooling at his sides, flourishing over his heavy jacket. "C-Ca…" he struggled out, turning his head to face his shooter. "…Na…da…"

He gave one last kick to the boy, silencing him with his newly crimsoned boot.

"Pitiful." Matthew wiped away the speckles of red from his gun, and placed it back in its holster.

Freyr wouldn't be much of a problem now.

Finally, he could take it from him.

Canada could take it from him.

Matthew smiled.

Greenland was finally his.

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**A/N: OH HO HO, first chapter! I hope that I was able to make this decent enough for you all to read, but I have probably left you all with questions. OH WELL. YOU CAN FIND OUT IN THE NEXT CHAPTER. ;D.**

**Also, this is set in the future. Maybe the near future, the somewhat far future, I don't know. However, the next chapter will explain the interesting political stances going on.**

**Oh, and thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter One

**A/N: I do not own Hetalia.**

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Only a fool would assume that Freyr was dead.

That would be too easy if he were.

The boy was merely incapacitated for now.

He wouldn't die until this country fell.

So for now, Greenland lived, though bound and gagged in one of the staterooms, most likely screaming for his precious Denmark.

His dear, precious brother, Denmark.

Didn't he realize that Denmark was now only a bloodstain in Russia's cellar?

"Such ignorance," Matthew said, the line of his mouth drawn tight. He looked down to his glass of water. "Watching the world from such an isolated view."

The brotherly bond between the two Nordic countries made Matthew scowl, his hand tightening its grip on his drink. The ice inside clattered together, chinking against the glass.

He was obviously unhappy; Greenland and Denmark vaguely reminded him of himself and America.

They had such a close relationship.

Is that why he agreed to take out Greenland while Russia destroyed Denmark?

Matthew scrunched his brows. "This is ridiculous." He whispered.

"What is?" Replied a voice from behind him.

Matthew's lips curled into a smile, letting out a small laugh. He didn't bother to turn around. "Ivan," He said gingerly, shaking away his thoughts for the moment. "How was Stockholm?"

"It was good," Ivan said, patting the other man on the head with his pale fingers. "_They_ have been good, da?"

"Very good."

"And no uprising?"

"No, of course not." Matthew quirked an eyebrow, head turned. "Don't you trust me?"

Ivan grinned, his childish face darkening with terror. He wandered his hand from the top of Matthew's head down to his cheek, slowly caressing it with his cold fingers. "Matthew has been a good boy." He whispered, his voice sharp. "Unlike his brother."

Matthew's eyes narrowed. "Alfred?" He spat venomously. He couldn't stand the way the way the word lingered in his mouth, rolling off of his tongue like molasses. "What about him?"

Ivan's grip tightened on the other man's face, smiling viciously. "He's going to hurt you." He replied, hand unwavering. Ivan pressed his chest against Matthew's back, locking their bodies together. "He's going to hurt you very bad." He snaked his hand down the man's neck, briefly lingering over his throat before sliding it down the collar of Matthew's crisp dress shirt.

Matthew shivered, the pinprick jolts from Ivan's fingers trailing up his spine. He could feel Ivan gently stroking a sore spot on his chest, one that never completely healed. One that Ivan himself had given him. He winced, looking away as if it would make the pain go away. "Remember what he did to my sweet Matthew?" Ivan asked, carefully pushing his fingers into the wound.

Silence.

A grunt slipped out of Matthew's lips as the fingers that were under his shirt quietly ripped away at the torn flesh. "Do you remember?" He repeated.

The pain wasn't much, but it raced all over his body like fire causing him to stutter. "I-I do."

"What did he do then, my poor sweet Matthew? What did he do?"

Matthew struggled to get his words out, his mouth dry and empty as the pain became greater and greater, Ivan prodding his fingers into the open gash, nails digging into the soft tissue, a twisted smile carved over his lips.

"H-He left me." Matthew finally said, feeling the blood seep onto his shirt. "He left me to die."

He could feel Ivan's fingers moving away from his chest, slithering back out and again to his cheek. His fingers were slick, dabbed in crimson as he touched the man's face, softly rubbing his thumb across his cheekbone. "Then Matthew knows what he has to do, da?"

Matthew nodded, the pain flourishing in his chest as he blinked away tears.

Ivan gently kissed Matthew's earlobe, breathing warm air into his hair as he raised his arm to stroke the man's blonde hair again, bringing him closer. "Do it then." He said darkly, though rustling the hair in his fingers like a child. "Kill your brother."

"…Y-yes, Ivan." Matthew muttered, his gaze set onto the floor. "…I will."

* * *

Leif didn't like to think about his present situation.

In fact, he kind of hoped that if he didn't think of it at all, he would wake up, and it would all be some scary dream.

He always found it hard to think of anything else though.

Especially with Russia and Canada waiting for him to slip.

No.

He couldn't mess this up.

The world was watching, watching Iceland, watching him, waiting for him to beat the odds or to become another victim of the Russo-Canadian Union. Either one, the onlookers couldn't decide.

The world was still reeling from the Third Korean War, trying to build themselves back to their glorious selves, watching their reflection in the mirror try to imitate their lost opulence.

But it the light was on him now. Each of them looked up from their newspapers, eyes and ears ready, anticipating a move of sheer brilliance or stupidity from him. They listened eagerly, breath held as more information slowly dripped in from every source, buzzing in the air like a million little bees.

For now though, he was alone.

He was alone while the world just sat back on their thrones and waited.

Their late aid couldn't ease the screams of his brothers.

And certainly, they wouldn't be able to ease him, especially now.

Abruptly, there was a heavy knock at his door, jarring him from his thoughts.

Leif turned, staring at it with fear.

Three more knocks, the rapping quick paced, impatient.

His heart beat faster against his chest as he grabbed his pistol on the counter, his finger trembling on the trigger. His other hand cocked the gun, switching the safety off.

Was he ready?

He could feel himself struggling for air, taking in more shallow breaths as he crossed the floor, eyes locked upon the wooden door. His fingers reached for the lock, twitching in anticipation.

He took a deep breath as he undid the chain, and then swung the door open, holding his gun up in preparation.

The man standing outside gave a small smile, hiding his face in the shadows. Curving his lips, he spoke softly, looking into the barrel of the gun pointed towards him. "Good evening, Leif." His eyes flickered back up, intently staring into the other man's eyes. "May I come in?"

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**AHHHHH. CLIFFFF HANNNGGGERRRRR. It took me SO long to write this. How lame! I already have the next few chapters done though, so there shouldn't be this big gap anymore. xD. Alright, so I'm going to apologize for Russia being a stupid face to Canada, BUT CANADA NEEDS TO LEARN HIS PLACE. I just kidd. Though Canada is pretty intense and powerful in this story, Russia is still TEH BOSS to him, which will be explained why in the next chapter.**

**Anyway...**

**NOTES:**

**-The Third Korean War will be explained in the next few chapters, as well as the Russo-Canadian Union.**

**-If you're keeping score, the only two countries not taken over by Russia/Canada are Iceland and America.**

**Thanks for reading! :D.**


	3. Chapter Two

**A/N: I do not own Hetalia.**

The man standing outside gave a small smile, hiding his face in the shadows. Curving his lips, he spoke softly, looking into the barrel of the gun pointed towards him. "Good evening, Leif." His eyes flickered back up, intently staring into the other man's eyes. "May I come in?"

Leif paled, slowly dropping the gun to his side, slipping his finger from the trigger. "Certainly." He said, his voice a low croak in his dry throat. He moved aside, gesturing the other man inside, uncertainty rising within him like a wave.

"I see that you're… aware of the predicament you are in." The man started, eyes observing the gun in Leif's hand as he stepped inside.

"One can never be more prepared." Leif closed the door behind his guest, its muffled creak lingering faintly over the forced small talk.

"Ah," There was a shuffle of wool as the man removed his ebony jacket, unbuttoning the shiny buttons. "Truer words have never been spoken." The fabric draped off of him, falling off of his arms and into his hands.

Leif stared in silence, his mouth an empty well, void of words. As the man placed his jacket upon the coat rack, Leif could only find himself locking the door, his fingers jumpy when they met the cold metal. He didn't know what to do. The words wouldn't come fast enough.

"Jolly good." Answered the man, slipping out of his boots. "Now let's get down to business, shall we?" His ivy green eyes flashed up to Leif's, making sure that he knew that he was now being serious.

"Yes," Leif moved back, leading the way to the dining room where they would be able to converse freely. "Of course, Mr. England sir."

England, or Arthur as he was known by to his close relations, followed, taking a seat at the side of the table, hands politely folded on the cherry wood counter. "Please, call me England. All this Mister, Sir, and what not is much too formal for such a meeting."

Leif took the head of the table, sitting down nervously. He kept the pistol on his lap, hand frozen to it as if it would be needed later. "Ah yes, England. Sorry." He could feel his face blush, flushing his cheeks in pink. How stupid of him. Of course England didn't like to be called Sir.

"There's no need for an apology." England reprimanded lightly. "All of my acquaintances need not call for me so politely." He produced a flask from his breast pocket, silver glinting madly in the light. "We're all on equal ground during war."

Leif inwardly sighed. "Yes, I suppose we all are, aren't we." He replied, watching England take a long sip from the container in his hands. "But, please, let's cut to the chase. Why are you here?"

"Iceland," England answered, placing the lid back on the flask and returning it to his vest. "I am here to propose to you a deal."

Leif shifted in his chair, suddenly feeling uncomfortable again. "What kind of a deal?"

"A protected state."

His mouth gaped open, struggling to push words out of them as he stared in bewilderment at the man at the table. "Of course you'd have full control of your government." England continued, intertwining his gloved fingers together. "But right now, the first priority should be stopping any invasion here."

Leif found himself nodding, the words haunting his mind as if always there. It was only now that he realized how close danger really was to him.

"And you'll have the full support of the British and French military as well."

The light from the candelabra above flickered like static, each little light fading and brightening in small bursts, shadowing England's face, creating a more haggard and tired man than had been at his door minutes earlier.

No more was England the proud diplomat of York, but the weary man of war. From all of the lengthy scars gracing his face, Leif could tell that the latest had been cruel to him. His nose had been fractured in many places, healed improperly and left bent and crooked. There were the jagged lines of mismatched flesh upon his chin, the stitches long gone after a field medic's pair of scissors. And there were dark circles under his bright eyes from nights of waking up screaming over and over again.

England crossed his arms, trying to keep his trembling voice low as he spoke. "Hopefully, we can take them down."

Truly, Leif felt sorry for this man, left so broken after the battle. He willed himself to talk, to reassure the man that it was alright, but something different came out. His own voice cracked through his thoughts, spilling into England's ears.

"England, what happened to you?" He asked, words so personal. "…What happened to Canada?"

"The war," England replied quietly, casting his glance to the floor. "Which is why we're here now."

Leif agreed. Though neither he nor his country were involved in the Third Korean War, he knew.

He had heard of the terrors.

How North Korea and Russia both laughed as they held their thumbs on the button for nuclear destruction.

How America, despite the pain from the bombings in Hawaii, dragged himself to the West, full throttle into the nuclear war.

And how Canada was sucked in, despite his peacekeeping agenda, from his brothers all valiantly fighting a dangerous game.

England pressed his eyes closed, curling his hands into fists. "…He was the one that came home different. More than unrecognizable." He sighed. "…We all ignored it."

He patted his chest, feeling for his pocket. "England…" Leif said, worry creeping into his voice as he watched the man pull the flask out once more.

"Maybe we try not to think about it because it hurts us," England unscrewed the top, waiting for another sip of fiery whiskey. "It hurts us to think of what we could do to another, what we did to Matthew, but god." He placed his lips against the opening, greedily drinking in the scorching liquid that familiarly burned his throat raw and red. It was such a comfort, drinking until there was nothing left in the bottle. It gave him something else to blame his problems on.

The last amber drop fell onto his tongue, and England pulled it away, placing it on the table. "No matter how much I drink, I won't forget." He said, watching the light dance upon the silver coating. "I can't. I can't because he's my brother. He's my brother, and my enemy."

_He scrambled frantically on the floor, the cool concrete under his hands and knees slick with blood as he tried to sit up. It was cold, copper tasting, hanging faintly on his tongue, dripping down his chin, spattering to the ground with little sound. _

_He grunted, licking away the crimson matted on his lips._

_The pain was so unreal, he hadn't felt anything like this in so long._

_He moved up, finally sitting properly, his wrists and ankles aching from the claw grip of the shackles that bound him._

_What happened?_

_The last thing he remembered was marching in the mountains. Alfred and he had a fight. They went their separate ways. There was a flash of gold._

_Then he was here. _

_Where ever that was._

"_God, it's cold." He whispered to himself._

_His glasses drooped lower onto his nose as he lowered his head._

_Did he separate from his brother?_

_Matthew shuddered. Most likely he was caught by the enemy. An enemy that could be anybody. _

_He looked down to his legs, crude gauze wrapped around them, streaks of crimson dripping down like raindrops. _

_What he wouldn't give to see a doctor._

_Or to see Alfred._

_Or Francois._

_Or Arthur. _

_His heart sank._

_What he wouldn't give to see his family again._

_At that precise moment, the door opened, clicking satisfyingly against its lock as it swung open revealing a brooding man behind the door. _

"_A-Alfred?" He stuttered, his voice hoarse and dull._

"_Does Matthew not remember me?" The voice replied slowly, a twinge of resentment within the sharpness of the words. _

_Matthew could feel his heart drop even lower. "Ivan." He spat. "What did you do to me? Let me go!"_

_Ivan chuckled, his hollow laugh reverberating into the room. "Oh poor Matthew, I am doing this for your own good."_

"_How could it be good if I'm bleeding?"_

_Ivan stepped closer, kneeling down at the man's feet. "Shh now, I will take care of you," He turned his face downward, running his index finger under Matthew's bloody chin. "As long as you don't try to escape."_

_Tears prickled in Matthew's eyes. "Whe-where's Alfred?"_

"_Oh, my sweet Matthew," Ivan cooed quietly, delivering a quick slap to the other man's face before cupping his head in his hands. Matthew whimpered, a large red spot flourishing on his milky skin stinging under Ivan's touch. "You do not ask questions, da?" _

_Matthew promised himself he wouldn't cry._

_No, he could beat Ivan. He wouldn't crumble under this._

_Just agree now, and escape later._

"_Da, Matthew?" _

_Matthew's voice creaked out of his throat, slipping off of his tongue and out of his mouth in a whiff of clouds and blood. "Y-yeah-yes," He corrected himself. "Yes, Ivan."_

_A wide smile grew on Ivan's face, his lips curling into a grin like a mischievous child. He rubbed his thumbs over the man's cheekbones, wiping away any loose tears that wetted his skin. "Good. Little Matthew will be obedient," He answered, leaning in closer. His breath distantly reeked of vodka as he whispered into his captive's ear. "And I will be good to him."_

_Matthew flinched, knowing fully well what the man could mean. _

"…_Or," Ivan continued, his voice a dull rumble. He moved in to kiss the crown of Matthew's blonde head, hands still firmly set upon his face. "I will crush in your skull with the heel of my boot." _

_He let go and stood up, looking down upon his prisoner, his smile now dark and menacing. "Won't that be nice, Little Matthew?" _

_A grimace crossed Matthew's face. Ivan's voice was idyllic, sweet, wispy, dripping into Matthew's ears like honey. Poisoned, rotting, crimson honey. "Yes, Ivan." He said slowly, his hands trembling against their cuffs. "Of course."_

Whoo hoo! Another chapter done! So, on to the notes!

Notes:

-Characters who are personally close to one another will call each other by their human names. If they barely know each other, it's more appropriate for them to use their country's name.

-The Third Korean War was basically started by North Korea, who attacked Hawaii as a means of attacking America. America was not happy, and launched nuclear weapons at N. Korea. After this event, Russia, China, England, France, Canada, and many other countries who aren't really that important for the purpose of this story, all joined in. This led to a seven-year long conflict in which Russia and China became new opponents to America. MORE ON THIS IN THE NEXT CHAPTERS.

-I know that England can't take liquor down very well. It is exactly the reason why he's talking about Matthew the way he is, because I highly doubt that he'd talk to Iceland of all people about his concerns sober. xD.

Again, thanks for reading! :D.


	4. Chapter Three

**A/N: I do not own Hetalia.**

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Matthew rubbed his shoulder, wincing as his rough fingers made contact with the purpled skin. He massaged the crook of his neck, gently trailing over the exposed flesh of his new wound. Ivan had left a while ago, behind him a single drop of dark crimson upon the linoleum floor.

Now he was left alone to his own means, watching his fingers wander over the remainder of his lesion which was far deeper than he would have thought.

In times like these, he couldn't expect Ivan to be all too pleasant. In fact, he was surprised that nothing else came out of it.

It had been so long too, he could barely remember why he had gotten it in the first place.

Disobedience, most likely.

That was worth some physical damage, and in Matthew's case, some deep cuts from a broken vodka bottle.

He sighed, eying the drying blood stain on his white dress shirt. "Norway!" He called, his voice loud and demanding.

A pale boy scurried into view, standing gravely in front of Matthew. He didn't say anything, as if his mouth had been sewn shut, but his blue eyes betrayed him, screaming for mercy at his captor.

"Please fetch me some gauze." Matthew said, intensifying his eye contact with the boy.

Matthew was never the one to forget politeness, though Norway did not deserve to be called personally by his human name.

Norway bobbed his head, shaking his blonde hair over his eyes as he scampered off for the first aid kit.

Another sigh escaped Matthew's lips.

He was sure that at another time that the circumstances would have been different. They would have been friends, they would have been allies, they would have been happy. But now here they were: the ruler and the servant. Uneven ground.

Norway came back, the white kit held in his shaking hands. Silently, he held it out, turning his glance downwards away from Matthew's prying eyes.

"Thank-you." Matthew muttered, lifting the box from the boy's arms and placing it on the table. "You can go now."

Norway nervously nodded, hastily retreating back into the hallway, not once turning his back on the man sitting at the counter.

Once Norway had left, Matthew unbuttoned his shirt, the fabric sliding off of his arms and around his back.

It was much worse than he had thought; the flesh peeled back revealing the red of muscles strung together by sinews, warm blood clinging to his skin. He grabbed a soft cotton pad, carefully placing it upon the gash. A small whimper escaped his lips, his lip trembling in pain. Quickly, he taped it on, small spots of crimson flourishing upon the fabric, and wrapped it up with gauze, rolling it over his shoulder and over his chest.

This would have been easier if he had a mirror.

The pain shot up his shoulder, eating away at his skin. "Ahh…!" Matthew cried, a dab of tears dotting at the corners of his eyes.

It hurt even more than the original infliction.

He could remember the way the glass bottle broke effortlessly on the floor, shattering into many little shards all glittering madly in the dim orange light.

How Ivan leaned in closer, his hand on the bottle's neck, sliding what was left over Matthew's bare skin, dancing dangerously under his neck.

The jagged pieces, cut like mountain peaks drew blood at the touch, leaving behind fine lines of red along the milky flesh.

Slowly at first, thoughtful, contemplative, then quicker and quicker, deeper and deeper into the goose bumped skin, concentrating on the shoulder to the heart, under the collarbone; right where the burn of York was, replacing the marred flesh with blood and muscle.

It left its mark permanently, forever embedded into his mind. A reminder of failure. A reminder of strength. A reminder of truth.

Matthew shook, his body aching. The words Ivan had whispered earlier echoed in his mind, drifting in a whirlwind of thought as he contemplated his next move. He quickly redressed himself despite the pain, covering his bandaged chest with crisp white cotton and lacquered buttons.

Then automatically, even before he knew it, he reached out to the black telephone sitting on the table. The plastic was smooth against the tips of his fingers, sliding down to the key pad, dialling in the familiar number without looking.

He raised the phone to his ear, the dial tone humming forever in his ear.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The phone rang, waiting for someone on the other end to pick up, to stop the endless suspense that softly snarled in Matthew's ear.

Finally, there was a click, a distant voice on the line, beat and quiet. "Hello?"

He considered hanging up, ending it there, but his voice ebbed out, spinning only a word from his mouth. "…Alfred?"

"M-Mattie?" The voice darted in and out, barely a whisper against the static. "Is that you?"

"Yeah." Matthew mustered back, adjusting the frame of his glasses. "Hey."

* * *

Arthur grumbled as he unlocked his front door, jingling the keys with his freezing fingers.

"Damn rain."

As soon as he got back from Iceland (An hour later than he had planned, no less), the sky greeted him with the usual teary droplets from whiffs of dust bunnies. Even now it was still raining, falling to the ground and splashing noisily into puddles along the road.

He couldn't wait to sit down with a nice cup of earl grey.

Hastily, he threw his keys into his pocket, swinging the door open.

All of the lights in his house were on, coating the walls in an eerie yellow.

Arthur reached for his gun, pulling it out in anticipation. His heart beat faster against his wet jacket, pounding in adrenaline as he crept into the hall. He could feel his finger twitch on the trigger, ready to pull if necessary.

"Angleterre," A sickly-sweet voice called out from his living room. "It's rude to keep your guest waiting!"

Arthur's face fell to a scowl. He moved faster, pistol held high in preparation, boots squeaking under the wooden floor. His side leaned against the wall, waiting to turn the corner.

"Don't be shy, mon cheri!"

Arthur jumped out, gun held by outstretched arms, breath held.

The man sitting in the room looked at him, giving him a lopsided smile.

Arthur stopped, lowering his gun.

"You bloody frog!" He yelled, his voice shaking. He could feel the finger on the trigger ease away, his hand slowly directing the pistol to his holster. "How the hell did you get into my house?"

Francis leaned back in the armchair, smugly quirking an eyebrow. "You've never been good at hiding you spare keys from me." He rattled the set of keys hung by his fingers. "But enough about your incompetence-" Arthur stomped over, snatching the keys and making a mental note not to put them under the rock by the steps again. "How was Reykjavík?"

Arthur glared, pointing to the door. "Get the hell out of my house."

"Aren't we allies?"

"That does not entail you to break into my house."

Francis stifled a laugh. "I suppose Iceland said no to you then?" He placed a hand underneath his short beard. "I'm just curious! I would be grouchy too, had I been the one denied!"

"Francis, I-" Arthur retorted. "Wait, what? I wasn't the one rejected here, you git! In case you haven't read the news, Iceland agreed!" He pulled at Francis' sweater, easily lifting him up to his feet. "Now get out!"

Francis eased back a smile, though slightly nervous at the threatening tone of the man in front of him. "Alright, alright," He said, defeat evident in his voice.

Arthur let go of him, ivy eyes ablaze watching his every move.

Francis made his way to the front door, still wide open, the welcome mat now soggy squishy under his socked feet.

"Next time, knock." Arthur reprimanded, running his hand through his blonde hair. "And maybe I won't have to yell at you again."

Francis pulled his coat from a hanger by the closet. "Yeah, yeah." He zipped it up, casually throwing his silky hair over his hand. As he turned to say good bye, he cringed, watching Arthur carefully. "…I thought that you had stopped." he said with displeasure.

"Mind your own bloody business," Arthur replied, fluttering a lighter to his mouth. A flame flickered for a moment overtop, and then disappeared. "You git." He pursed his lips together, holding the cigarette taut, letting the nicotine rot inside of his head.

"That filth will ruin your lungs."

"Well, you used to smoke, didn't you."

Francis rolled his eyes. "Qui, but it was a long time ago." He turned away, crossing his arms.

Rain pattered on the street, tapping lightly against the concrete.

"Long ago, my ass." Grey clouds drifted from Arthur's mouth, spiralling into itself as it clambered for an escape. He puffed them away from his lips, pulling the cigarette between his gloved fingers. "Since when did you get all self-righteous?"

"Mon cheri," Francis replied, watching the rain pour into the mist outside. From the corner of his eye, he could tell that Arthur winced at the words. He bitterly smirked. "Since when did you start drinking before noon?"

A silence befell the two; Arthur removed the cigarette and Francis turned his head down.

"It hasn't been the same," Arthur quietly said. "Knowing that we're so close to destruction."

Francis stepped closer, placing a small kiss on Arthur's cheek. "We'll get them, Angleterre." He whispered, suppressing a sigh.

"I want to hope so," Arthur replied, looking away. "I really do."

* * *

**Oh man, how anti-climatic right there. _.**

**NOTES:**

**-L'Angleterre is French for England.**

**-Reykjavík is the capital of Iceland where Leif lives.**

**Thanks for reading. :D.**


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